


a great comfort in you

by sunset_waltz



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Domestic, F/M, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-10
Updated: 2020-08-10
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:48:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25823902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunset_waltz/pseuds/sunset_waltz
Summary: Glimpses of happiness in James and Miranda’s life in Nassau. Because you can’t feed a love on anger and resentment.
Relationships: Miranda Barlow & Captain Flint | James McGraw, Miranda Barlow/Captain Flint | James McGraw
Comments: 12
Kudos: 31





	a great comfort in you

**Author's Note:**

> So, yesterday I was listening to "Riches and Wonders" by The Mountain Goats (you can listen to it [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RTvgw2xBfbk) and [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_gdLDLlFc3M)) and suddenly this happened. For some reason I just find it a great James/Miranda song. The title is also from this song. 
> 
> Note: Although not necessarily connected, this fic can be considered as part of the same universe as [my other Black Sails fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25529197/chapters/61941490).

Sometimes, Miranda wakes up in the morning to find a letter on her doorstep: a white envelope, in which the only words that can be read are _Mrs. Barlow_. Even if she didn't recognize the penmanship, she always knows who they're from. There's only one person who ever writes to her.

Receiving letters from James is a rare occurrence — for them to ever reach her, James first needs to reach port, and then he needs to find someone who'll actually deliver it. Even with the all care he takes, she knows that James writes more letters than she receives.

The letters themselves are always quite generic: a small update on his travels, on when he intends to return to Nassau, all of them half-lies that he'll clarify once they're together again. Beyond the words, sees the letters for what they are: a reassurance that says _I'm fine, I am alive_.

Sometimes, though, the letters come with a poem or a paragraph, a tease from a book he's bringing her, words that James took care to find and transcribe. When that happens, Miranda fools herself into thinking that the letters are more than what they are, that hidden in the words is something else, something like _I'm thinking of you_ or _I'm making my way home, to you_.

Whenever James comes home, Miranda never knows in which state she'll find him: if rejoicing over a new win, or if deep in the throes of grief. She learns, over time, to put her own feelings aside when he comes, readying herself to meet him wherever he is. _He's rarely home_ , she reasons. She can save her own anger and resentment for later.

She enjoys the mornings when she wakes up next to him the most. There's a particular sort of comfort in waking up next to someone, a comfort she's not privileged to have anymore. Those mornings, she lets herself stay in bed a little while longer, just feeling him beside her, and then gets up and lets him sleep. He can always do with a little sleep.

"I bought you something," James says once. Miranda turns to watch him make his way into the kitchen with the bag he was carrying with him the night before in hand. He's just woken up but he's as alert as ever, even though Miranda can make out the pillow marks on his cheek. The sight of him makes her smile.

"Good morning to you too," she says.

James smiles, a bit crooked like he doesn't know how to do it anymore, but nonetheless honest. "Good morning," he rectifies. He sits down on one of the table chairs and puts down his bag. "I bought you something," he repeats, sliding the bag towards her.

Miranda opens it to find a different assortment of fruits. She smiles as he says, "Winter fruits. I brought them because I don't believe you can plant them here. They weren't ripe when I got hold of them, so I thought they might survive the trip." His hand comes to rest on top of hers. She looks to him as he says, "I thought you might like them."

She takes a better look at what's in the bag — grapes, passion fruit, pomegranates. All things she remembers from a life before, a life that she rarely lets herself think about. All things she hasn't seen in what feels like the longest time.

"Darling, thank you," she says, letting go of the fruits and looking at him again. James doesn't smile, but his eyes soften. For a moment, he seems almost embarrassed under her stare. It makes her smile harder.

She breaks the moment by turning back to the counter where she was slicing pieces of bread for their breakfast. "When do you have to get back?" she asks with her back still turned.

Behind her, James gets up. From the corner of her eye she can see him getting a cup of water. "I have a few days," he answers. "I was thinking I could stay here, if you want me."

Reassured, Miranda turns to put the bread and cheese on the table. "Of course I want you," she says, turning back to get the tea.

She and James sit in front of each other. "Seems like we're settled then," he says, and they eat.

Every now and then, when James is staying the night and doesn't have to be anywhere the next day, they get drunk. They don't do it more often because James gets sad and tearful when he drinks, while Miranda gets horny and ready to pick up a fight. It's not a good match and it often ends badly, with more tears and screams then necessary.

Still, there's only so much that can they do when they're together: James updates her on his travels, Miranda does her daily housework, they sit and read for a few hours, they have sex. Neither of them likes talking too much, so sometimes, when the silence gets too oppressive, alcohol is the more tempting option. They’ve never been great at refraining their impulses.

Every so often, though, it doesn’t end in disaster. Sometimes they manage to get just drunk enough that the sex is actually great, that they can talk more freely, that they can let their guard down in front of the other.

One time, James asks her to dance.

"You don't like dancing," she points out, looking up at him. He's already looking down at her. His eyes are clearer then she expected, which makes her wonder if perhaps he didn't drink as much as she thought. Or perhaps, he drank so much he's already on the other side of his drunkenness.

"No, but you do," he says simply, still holding out his hand. Miranda doesn't know how to say no to that, doesn't think she ever could. She takes another sip of her drink and then gets up, feeling unbalanced now that she's up, but James' arms are right there, holding her up.

They start rocking in place, and Miranda realizes for the first time how boring it is to dance without music, so she starts signing something. She things loudly, off-key, and for some reason that makes James huff a laugh.

"You're awful," he says.

Miranda leans back from their embrace to look at him. There’s mirth in his eyes. "Are you going to do better?" she asks. "Because if not, then this is all we have."

James leans to kiss her. They lose themselves in it.

"Go on, then," he prompts eventually, and she does, returning to her loud, off-key singing that makes James laugh again, louder this time. Miranda's heart clenches with the sound.

She sings and they dance, holding each other tightly, keeping each other steady.

The only time James allows her to hold him — truly hold him, that is, not just the almost-embraces they usually have — is after they have sex in the darkness. Miranda doesn't know what about it allows him to relax, but she knows that when they have sex in the deep of the night, with the blinds tightly shut, he's always tender afterwards.

It's the only time they allow themselves to mourn together. Miranda holds him tightly and they breathe together, and if either of them cries, neither of them ever comments on it.

They never say his name. She feels the urge to, sometimes, and it makes her wonder what she hates the most: the silence of his absence, or her impulse to break it. For James’ sake, and possibly her own, she always manages to refrain her desire.

"I'm so tired," James says occasionally. It's the only thing he ever says about his well-being other than _I'm fine_ or _I'm injured_.

She doesn't say, _Me too_. Instead, Miranda squeezes her arms around him, tries to hold them even tighter. Part of her hopes that one day she'll be able to bring them so close physically, that the void between them won’t feel so big anymore.

"You can rest now," she answers sometimes. She combs his hair with her fingers, soothingly, over and over again.

"I'm doing this for us," he says other times, voice desperate, as if he needs the reassurance of the words. "I only want to keep you safe."

Those times, she doesn't answer at all.

But though their sex isn't always good — they seem to have lost the hang of it, somehow, sometimes; seem to have forgotten the way of each other’s bodies — it isn't always bad either. Every now and then, on a particularly good day, they are actually happy, or as close to it as they'll ever get. When it happens, their sex is happy too. It's teasing, and light, and intimate, and fun. Miranda laughs. James smiles every time she does.

James is the one who nestles close to her afterwards, and they’re not exactly cuddling or embracing, just simply laying there, together. Peacefully.

They'll get up eventually, to get breakfast or whatever meal is more appropriate at the time of the day. Sometimes, the happiness doesn’t last the whole day: they fight, breaking whatever harmony they managed to build, and afterwards Miranda turns to chop onions so she doesn't have to look at him, or James storms out in a rage fit, even though they both know he'll return eventually, ashamed of ever leaving in the first place.

As they lay there together, though, breathing together, the sunlight streaming through the window, she thinks that, perhaps, they _are_ home. That this house and this life isn’t simply a stepping stone for _something_ that might never come, but that when James writes to her, or when he takes time to pick up something he thinks she'll like, he's thinking of ways to make their home feel like one.

It's not the home they want. It's not the home James aspires to make or the one Miranda dreams of. But it's one in which there is peace. Perhaps, she thinks, that's all either of them could ever ask for.

**Author's Note:**

> This was my attempt to give this fandom some happy(-ish) James and Miranda in Nassau. Somehow, angst still managed to make its way in.  
> I hope you enjoyed! Comments are always appreciated <3


End file.
